“Oi!” came a shout.
Alan looked up to see a blue-uniformed man approaching. It was the first time in his life he’d ever been relieved to see a Scotland Yard copper.
That pleasant feeling lasted all of five seconds. It evaporated as soon as the man barked, “You! Get your hands off that girl!” and broke into a run.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Alan muttered, and braced himself for things to get messy.
10
“A pity,” said Jack. “I was rather hoping they’d put you in a cell.”
Alan Ross’s entire face shouted how much he wished he could respond to that with a great deal of uncouth language. “His lordship is joking. His lordship has a unique sense of humour.” His accent was as polished as Jack had ever heard it, clearly for the benefit of the policemen in the room. Several scratches stood out pink and angry on his face, as if he’d been separating fighting cats.
“I am joking,” allowed Jack. “Maud.”
“My lord,” said Maud, with a meekness that sat even more poorly on her than restraint did on Ross. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair a disaster, and her dress dust-stained and creased. At least she had not been handcuffed.
Jack’s pleasant afternoon at his club had been interrupted by a message that there was an apologetic Scotland Yard constable begging a moment of his time, with a wild story about his young ward being assaulted into unconsciousness by a man who claimed first to be her friend, then a hired attendant. All very fishy. Both man and girl—once she’d revived—had begged the police to fetch Lord Hawthorn, who would clear up the situation in no time.
Jack was looking forward to the day when he could escape back to his previous life and stop being summoned to apply the grease of his station to Maud Blyth’s disasters.
“As I said, my lord,” said a blue-uniformed man whose face already showed the strain of having been in a room with the full force of Maud’s Maudness for some time. “This … individual … claims to have been hired to watch over the girl.”
“Because I have violent fits,” said Maud. “I keep telling them, my lord, that Mr. Ross was only trying to protect me from harming myself.”
Violent fits. Harming herself. An old, old fear curled a sly hand around Jack’s heart. For a moment he couldn’t speak at all. Then he mastered it.
“Remove the cuffs,” said Jack. “My ward does indeed require constant supervision, and I would personally vouch for the virtue of any young woman in Mr. Ross’s company.”
Ross’s face wiped itself clean of expression and he stared at the ceiling.
Jack got them out of the station amid a flurry of apologies and harrumphing and The whole situation seemed very irregular, my lord, I’m sure you understand-ing. He heard the rest of the story in a cab back to Spinet House. Some of the cold fear fled, though it left frosted fingerprints on the underside of Jack’s ribs. Possession, not madness. Or—anything else. And Maud seemed entirely herself now. Ross’s face was the worst casualty.
“Why didn’t you send for your brother?” Jack demanded.
“She wasn’t awake for the first part of it,” said Ross. “I played the highest card we had. Earl’s son trumps baronet.”
“So the fits of violent madness were your idea.”
“My reputation is already in tatters,” said Maud. “It can stand it. And it was quick of Alan to think of it.”
Jack admitted the truth of that. He delivered Maud to the front of Spinet House, where she directed a semi-hopeful look up at him.
“No,” Jack said. “You can explain your brilliant plan, and what happened, to the people who love you. And you can deal with all their yelling yourself.”
“Violet will yell. Robin won’t,” said Maud glumly. “He’ll look hurt and worried. It’ll be awful.”
“Good,” said Jack. “You deserve it. Goodbye, Maud.”
“Ill-bred cad,” said Maud, but one of her dimples popped into view and she went inside readily enough, leaving Jack standing with Ross on the street.
“You really are,” said Ross. “Actually, I think the breeding contributed. You can afford to never have learned to be pleasant.”
“I’ve yet to see any evidence you’ve learned it either.”
“I might be a perfect lamb when I’m not being provoked by you lot,” said Ross. “You wouldn’t know.” He rolled his eyes when Jack made a disbelieving sound. “When we met on the ship you were holding a gun in my face, Violet was threatening to mess about with my memory, and you all already knew I was a thief.” Like a stone thrown through glass burst that wicked, uneven smile. “There didn’t seem much point in pretending to be nice.”
“And now you’re pretending?”
Ross hesitated. Finally, lethally—“I don’t think you want me to be nice, my lord Hawthorn.”
Jack’s breath didn’t stop. It might have … paused.
“Besides—in my position, you figure out pretty fast who’s safe to push. Whose bark is worse than his bite.” The smile grew deadlier. Jack took a moment to curse Pete Manning, and Ross finished: “You’ve a very good bark, your lordship—a huge, rough, throbbing bark—”
“Stop that,” said Jack. His tone surprised even himself: low, commanding.
“—but I haven’t yet seen you bite.”
“Perhaps if you asked nicely.”
It hung between them, developing its own weight and shape. Their bodies swayed apart and together like a small tide.
“You’ve earned that hazard pay today,” Jack went on. The words came out, dragged by that tide. “I refuse to have you interview any more of my relatives, but I can offer you dinner.”
“Dinner,” repeated Ross.
“At my townhouse. I planned to dine there tonight anyway.”
“Dinner.”
“Quid pro quo,” said Jack, “if that helps your pride.”
“You don’t give a toss for my pride.”
“Dinner and as much arguing about politics as you wish. Or if you’d rather keep yourself warm with the knowledge you declined a dinner invitation from an earl’s son—”
“Piss off.” But Ross didn’t move. His face was a taunt. Jack waited, and eventually Ross said, clipped, “You know I can’t change for dinner.”
“Then I shan’t either. It’ll be informal.”
“All right.” A pause. “Thank you.”
The exchange about biting throbbed in Jack’s skull all the way back to his Mayfair townhouse, where Makepeace batted nary an eye at the prospect of an unexpected guest and put the machinery of dinner in motion. They ate in the smaller, more intimate dining room. Still—
“Informal my arse,” muttered Ross, twitching as a footman flicked out his napkin. He stared around him at the table setting.
Jack was on home turf and therefore in an easier mood. “I haven’t eaten here in weeks. Let them make the most of it.”
Ross inspected a fork. “I suppose they polish the silver on Tuesdays even if there’s nobody about to see it.”